A Summons to All My Foolish Blood
by GotPattinson
Summary: Set between episodes 7&8, after Sybil and Tom are discovered. How is it that he wasn't sacked straight away? What happens in the forgotten three months.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello, all! This is my first Downton fic, and my first attempt at a multi-chaptered work. After watching episodes 7&8 I couldn't help thinking it was a tad unrealistic that Mary and Edith would allow Sybil to get away with almost marrying Tom with no repercussions. So, of course, I had to come up with my own explanation. Also, this is un-beta'd, so if there are mistakes...ignore them. ;) Please review!

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><p><em>"I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood. Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance."<em>

- James Joyce, "Araby" (1914)

The ride home was silent save for the crunch of gravel under the tires and the occasional jostle; Edith's driving wasn't quite on the same standard as Branson's, but it was a necessary evil. Sybil was seated in the back with Anna, gazing out the cab while a few tears streamed silently down her face. She refused herself the luxury of openly sobbing; her grief was too great a beast to be seen by others, especially the likes of her mutinous sisters and her ladies maid. The resounding silence between the four women opened up like the mouth of a cavern, the space thick with the unspoken scandal of Sybil's attempted elopement.

It left her with far too much time to think, for her and Tom had managed to drive a good two hours from Downton before stopping to rest at the Swan Inn. She repressed the image of his anguished eyes; _He thinks that I'm going to abandon him. Even now, after everything, he believes that I'll be swayed by them. _The surety of this knowledge was as solid as the foundations of Downton Abbey itself; how was she to salvage their future? Different scenarios flittered through her mind and the combination of exhaustion and heartbreak wasn't helping matters. She needed a new course of action.

"You must all promise me one thing on our return," she began. "Swear that you won't tell Papa about any of this."

"I'll promise nothing of the sort," retorted Mary, sitting regally in the front seat, looking as though she had just ended the war single-handedly.

"Mary…" Edith turned to her older sister, trying to will her to remain calm, for Sybil's sake.

"No," She cut across Edith, much in the way she always had done at balls and dinners in order to steal what little attention her younger sister garnered. "Sybil, you have to understand that we must tell Mama and Papa first thing tomorrow. For you to think otherwise is nonsense. We just saved you from making the biggest mistake of your life, from disgracing yourself and the rest of your family. If you think that after traipsing after you at all hours of the night I'll stand by and stay silent, only to watch you try it again, well, you're more naïve than I thought."

"What if I promise not to run away again?" Sybil protested.

Mary gave a rather un-lady-like snort, "If you remember, you made a similar promise months ago, and here we are."

Sybil, wearied from the events of the night, was unable to fathom a fight with her sister over such an important matter. "I'll make a deal. Would you accept postponing telling them until tomorrow morning? I'd rather face them with a good nights sleep and a speech prepared. At the moment I have neither energy nor sense to achieve either in a few hours."

"I suppose. Not that you have any grounds to be proposing deals, but as we all won't be getting much in the way of sleep, postponing the inevitable wouldn't do any harm," Mary replied. "But know this: there is nothing you can do or say that will make me change my mind about telling them."

"Not even Tom losing his position?" Sybil asked quietly.

"Especially not that," Mary replied haughtily.

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><p>It was only after Anna had left her that Sybil allowed herself to analyze the events that had transpired. She hadn't factored the possibility of someone checking up on her after dinner into their escape plan, or that Mary and Edith would willingly spend more than a few moments confined in a car together to come find her. She was deeply worried for Tom, for the way they had left things. Would he want to speak to her? If he did, would he blame her for leaving him? <em>I must find a way for Mary to see my side of things. I must have time to speak with him, to decide where to go from here.<em>

She was unwilling to leave again without confronting her family and telling them her beliefs, but she worried that doing it on her own terms, with Tom at her side, would be impossible once Mary stepped in. They would throw him out as soon as the words of their elopement were uttered, and she would have better luck with letters reaching him if he were on a battlefield in France, rather than locked in her room and having all of her correspondence monitored (which she knew would be the outcome).

She was startled by a knock on her door. Getting up from the bed quickly and drying the few tears that escaped during her initial grief, she moved toward the door and opened it a crack, only to be faced with the drawn and tired face of Edith.

"What do you want? I'm tired and I'd like to get some rest before the next round of reprimands I'm sure Mary will be doling out." Sybil's typical patience and understanding was worn to the bone, and she did not desire a third confrontation in as many hours.

"May I come in?" Edith asked, wary of her sister's uncharacteristically uncivil response.

Sybil stood aside and held the door open wordlessly, beckoning her in and closing the door behind her with a huff.

"I know you've been through a great shock," Edith began with trepidation, her tone soft and placating, similar to the way she used to approach officers new to the convalescent home.

"But I just wanted to assure you that you have someone on your side, at least. Even if it is only me," Edith pronounced, shrugging her shoulders as if this bit of information had been obvious the entire time.

"I don't understand, you're saying that you approve of my choice? That you don't think I'm mad to disgrace you all by running away with the chauffer?" The irony was evident in her words; she refused to believe that her sister would have any idea what it was like to give up so much, let alone have the courage to do so. Edith always had been too complacent for her own good.

"There are a few things that you should know about me," Edith began, gathering all her courage in order to reveal the deepest depths of her heart.

"Do you remember when I used to help out Mr. Drake and his wife with driving the tractor?"

And so her story began.

"You can't be serious," Sybil giggled, the absurdity of it all overwhelming her already exhausted nerves. "You mean to tell me that you, Lady Edith Crawley, second daughter to Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, _kissed_ John Drake? The farmer?"

"Yes," replied Edith. "And I'm not ashamed of it. He's a good man, and I think that if I'd had the chance, that is to say, if he weren't already married, that I would have entertained the idea of eloping with him as well."

"Oh, Edith, that's wonderful!" Sybil embraced her sister, throwing her arms around her neck and pulling her into the first hug they'd shared in years.

Edith spoke into Sybil's dark hair softly, "I'm not sure I would call it wonderful. His wife suspected us." Her voice wavered, trembling with the effort it took to hold in her turbulent emotions. When she began again, she spoke with the assertion of someone who had suffered a great loss, and was unwilling to witness another experience the same fate.

"Which is why I fully support your decision to marry Mr. Branson, even if I do agree with Mary that the way you went about it was foolish. And I fully intend to stand by you when the time comes. I don't think there is a person on this earth that deserves happiness more than you do, dear Sybil."

A declaration such as that coming from Edith was an unlikely occurrence, and Sybil had to wonder if she had ever shared such confidences with her sister, even as girls. Gnawing waves of guilt washed over her as she realized the depth to which she had underestimated her elder sister.

"Thank you, Edith. You have no idea how much strength your words give me," Sybil looked away, her eyes pooling with moisture. "But, I'm afraid that all the strength I may possess is no match for Mary's tenacity."

"Another reason why it's good that you have me in your corner," Edith's eyes gleamed wickedly. "Our dear sister is not as virtuous as she may present herself to be."

Edith produced a bundle of letters from the pocket of her dressing gown and, passing them to her sister carefully, bid her to read them. After a few long moments, Sybil looked up, her blue eyes astonished at the contents.

"Mary and…Mr. Pamuk? Oh, no." she uttered.

"Oh, yes," Edith said triumphantly, gathering the letters back into the safe confines of her gown and grinning all the while.

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><p>"I had thought the depths of your selfish depravity would have ended when you spilled my secrets to the Turkish Prime Minister, but I see now that I clearly underestimated you," Mary was glorious in her fury, and Sybil was reminded of their girlish arguments, always ending with a cowed Edith and a guilty Sybil, Mary triumphant. Looking back now, Sybil thought how foolish she and Edith had been to allow her to gang up on them; it was high time that they took a stand against her.<p>

They were in Mary's room, Anna had just left and the three of them were about to go down to dinner together, dressed in their evening finery. The fire in the grate cast swaths of light along the floor, flowing along the carpet and stopping short of their feet.

Edith was seated at the foot of Mary's bed, gazing at her with an expression of perfect nonchalance. "It seems as though you're the most depraved Crawley sister of all; at least Sybil had the good sense to at least attempt to be married before throwing away her virtue."

"Stop this, both of you. Mary, my intention was never to hurt you by exploiting your secrets, but now that I know the truth I can't see any other way."

"You can't possibly mean to – "

"I do! If you tell Papa about Tom and I, I'll go straight to him with this. And before you say there isn't any proof, remember Edith's letters. He would have no choice but to believe it." Sybil's breathing was harsh, for she was already afraid of the outcome of such a betrayal to her sister.

Mary remained silent for a few moments, mulling over the consequences of such an occurrence. Sybil saw the wheels turning in her head; _Mary always did flourish under pressure,_ she thought.

"What do I care a fig about all that? Of course, it would devastate Papa, but I'm already engaged to Carlisle, and he knows of what happened with Kamal. But that's a whole other affair and in of itself." She sat wearily at her vanity, gazing into the fireplace.

It was the answer that Sybil had been dreading. Mary was never down for long, and her passive response to what would be the most ruinous thing their father would endure spurred her to action.

"Then I'll tell Matthew," Sybil said, desperately. "And I know that any chance you think you may have of a friendship with him would be over as soon as he found out."

As soon as she spoke the words she regretted them, for she could see the pain they caused her sister. But she also saw the wind go out of her sails, her arguments invalid now that she had something to lose as well. It was all the encouragement Sybil needed, knowing that Mary wouldn't sacrifice Matthew in order to destroy her relationship with Tom.

"What's happened to you, Sybil?" Mary asked quietly, her dark eyes fathomless. "What brought you to this? You're not the same girl that you once were."

"Of course I'm not!" Sybil exclaimed, her frustration bringing color to her cheeks and tears to her eyes. "How could I be, after everything? After this war, after all I've seen and done? All of you want things to go back to the way they were, but I'm yearning for something greater. And I've found that with Tom, and I'll go to any lengths to keep him."

Edith smirked from the bed, "Just think how Matthew will take it, knowing that only a few months before you (nearly) accepted his proposal, you were inviting Turkish diplomats into your bed."

Mary started toward her, the light catching the beads of her dress and dancing about the bedspread as she reached her younger sister.

"I think we've had quite enough out of you. And to think, I was felt guilty over sending Sir Anthony packing, but now that I know what you're truly capable of, I can't say you don't deserve –"

"Please! Mary, I know you're furious, but this is the only way. Promise that you won't tell anyone about Tom and I. Ever," Sybil pleaded. She approached to her eldest sister, her eyes so startlingly blue and anguished that Mary couldn't help but nod her head.

Sybil uttered a thank you and, overwrought with a strange mix of elation, gratitude and self-loathing, sunk to the bed next to Edith.

"If you plan to do this, you'll be in for a hard road Sybil. One that I don't intend to help you along," Mary stated before turning toward the door and leaving the room. As she passed through the threshold, Cora appeared in the doorway.

"What's taking you girls so long?" she queried, looking between Edith's slumped shoulders and Sybil's damp eyes. "Come down to dinner at once, you've been dallying much too long."

"Yes, Mama," they stated, arising from the bed and crossing the room together.

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><p>Not to fear, our charming chauffer will be in the next chapter! :) Thanks for reading!<p>

P.S. The quote at the top is from the short story "Araby" by James Joyce. When I read those lines I couldn't help but think of Branson, and how that might have been what he was thinking in the early stages of his feelings towards Sybil, since (at the time) it seemed rather hopeless that they'd end up together.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hi, again! Thanks to those who reviewed, especially The Arcticourt Spellwright. Your words gave me the courage I needed to churn this baby out. As I said before, this is un-beta'd, so if there are mistakes, ignore them. Or tell me, if you'd like. I can't promise I'll fix them, though.

Since I forgot to do this in chapter one...

DISCLAIMER: I own absolutely, positively nothing. Except for a little crush on Allen Leech :)

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><p>Tom Branson was an utter fool. He should have known that Sybil would likely leave a note for her family, should have known that taking the car would be a dead giveaway as to what they'd intended to do. Instead of being halfway to Gretna Green (and halfway to happily married) he was back in this God-forsaken garage, pacing all day amongst the dust and grease, awaiting Mr. Carson's arrival and his unavoidable dismissal from service. Worse, he had heard no word from Sybil, and had not so much as a glimpse of her throughout the entire day (although he had tried peeking in through the main doors when he'd dropped off the Dowager Countess for dinner).<p>

He had packed, unpacked, and repacked his belongings several times in the course of the afternoon, even debated handing in his notice in order to escape the devastating clutches of heartbreak. _You did this to yourself, Tom Branson_, he thought. _You've reached too high and now must be put back in line_. The image of Sybil's downcast head, her eyes pleading with him to forgive her, would haunt him for the rest of his days. He knew that there was only a half-chance that she would even agree to leave with him, and yet despite his usual foresight, he had only dwelled on the unimaginable joy her decision had left him with. Never mind the consequences; never mind what should have been taken into account all along: their discovery.

When she had left the room at the inn with her sisters, he had clung desperately to her parting words, "Believe it or not, I will stay true to you." And yet, with the dawn came the seeds of doubt, plucking away at his brain like a vulture to its prey. The long drive back to Downton, alone, had left him far too much time to dwell on how easily she had left with them. Furthermore, it caused him to analyze her acceptance of his proposal in the first place. Although his memory of their kiss would be burned into his very soul forever, he did find a few aspects of their conversation and hurried decision lacking.

_She never said she loved me_, he thought. Fool that he was, Tom Branson had assumed that her decision to leave her family was based on their mutual affection for each other; now he couldn't help but be reminded that their relationship was always a tad one-sided. He had always been a passionate sort; when he was a boy his mother complained that he was too hot-headed for his own good, often brawling in the streets with older boys over some nonsense or another.

He remembered walking home from school one day behind Cathleen Donohue, his first crush, and tripping over a loose stone in the pavement (he'd been too preoccupied with her form than with the placement of his feet). He'd ended up sprawled on the ground like an idiot, his hands scraped and burning, but that was more bearable than the sourness of embarrassment in his gut. Her older brother, Ian, had doubled over and laughed for barely a few moments before Tom pummeled him to the ground. He'd come home bloodied, his jacket torn, his new hat missing, and had one of the worst tongue lashings of his life, _"Thomas Branson, if I ever hear of you fighting over some silly girl again I'll box your ears until you're deaf." _After her initial rant was over and his tears were dried, his mother brought him before the sink to clean him up. As she spoke again her tone softened,_ "You should never, ever let anyone make you feel less than what you are. Everyone makes mistakes, Tom. Everyone falls. But you must be able to pick yourself up again. And I don't mean by breaking poor Ian Donohue's nose."_

It seemed as though this would just be one more dip in the road, another occurrence where he had let his emotions get the best of him. _Just pick yourself up, Tom. One more rejection won't kill you_, he thought. And yet, it seemed as though this time it would take far longer to rebound from her rebuff. He had been so blinded by his joy the night before that he hadn't given a thought to anything else.

She'd come to him, dressed in all her finery, her hair swept up off her neck and her earrings sparkling in the lamplight. She was so lovely it was painful for him to be in her presence sometimes; many of their encounters had ended abruptly with him stalking out of the garage, the closeness of the space and his desire for her overwhelming him. But this time, all of his fevered dreams of her had come to fruition; her full lips had been soft beneath his, the taste of her unbearably sweet. He'd groaned loudly into her mouth when she'd unexpectedly slid her tongue along the seam of his lips, unashamed of his pent up desire. They had ended up breathless against the side of the Renault, his left arm around her waist, clutching her to him while his right steadied them against the cab. He'd pulled away first, eager to see her reaction to their kiss, and felt his stomach clench at the dainty, disappointed whimper she'd uttered. Christ, what she did to him.

_No sense dwelling on that now_, he thought sadly. The thought that he would very likely never touch her again nearly brought him to his knees as he entered his cottage, having just arrived back at the house after dropping off Lady Violet. His few belongings were still strewn half-hazardly about the room, his neatly packed suitcase from the night before upended at the foot of his bed. It was after midnight, and the fact that he'd not slept a wink the night before had taken its toll. As he began undressing for bed, he made up his mind. _Tomorrow I'll hand in my notice, and take the evening train. If she hasn't gotten word to me by now, then I'm as good as finished anyway and if she thinks for a moment I'm going to stay here and be her lap dog than she's a bigger fool than I am_, he thought. The pain in his chest increased, flowing up his shoulders and continuing to his head, where a dull throbbing behind his eyes remained. He put the kettle on after removing his waistcoat, tie and shirt, leaving him in his trousers and undershirt. He had just begun writing a letter home to his family, describing his imminent return (yet leaving out most of the gruesome details) when there was a faint knock on the door to his cottage.

_And here he is, Mr. Carson come to sack me_, he thought spitefully, standing and striding to the door and opening it roughly. As the door flew open, it was most certainly _not_ Mr. Carson standing before him, but rather Lady Sybil, clad in only her nightclothes, shivering beneath her silk dressing gown.

"May I come in?" She asked politely, gazing at him through her long lashes.

He nodded dumbly, worried that this was all a dream, one where he would wake up and the pain in his heart would be too great to bear. As he turned from the door (which he locked, lest someone come looking for them) he couldn't help but notice how she sashayed into his room, his _home_, as if she owned the place. (Despite the fact that technically she did, or her father did, it still made his blood boil). _What right does she have to come to me now, as if nothing's changed?_ He thought. It was his worst fear realized.

His defenses were up as soon as she turned to him, the carefully crafted wall he'd built around his heart in the years since her rejection of his proposal in York erecting itself again quite easily.

"What can I do for you, milady?" His tone was harsh, and he meant it to be. If she could not fathom how deeply she'd wounded him, he'd be damn sure she left knowing the hard truth of it.

Her eyes widened at his tone and his use of her title, before narrowing in confusion.

"Tom, I've come to explain. I've spoken to Mary and Edith and – "

"Please," He uttered. "I'd rather be spared the humiliation of your explanation. If you can't grant me that, then I must ask you to leave." He did not want to know what her sisters had convinced her to believe, did not want to be the object of their scorn.

She started toward him, reaching out to lay a hand on his bare arm. He pulled away from her as though burned.

"You needn't explain, milady. I understand perfectly well," his eyes were so blue, fathomless with anguish.

"Tom, please…" She began again.

"Lady Sybil, I'm very tired. I'd think it'd be best if you went back up to the house." His throat was burning, as though the anguish in his gut had risen slowly up his chest until it was near to spilling out of his mouth.

"Why are you being like this? What's happened?" She begged, her eyes pleading with him to explain his behavior. He could bear it no longer.

"I'll be turning in my notice first thing in the morning, mila-"

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" she exclaimed. Her face was flushed, her emotions torn between heartbreak and pure frustration.

"We must have a plan, Tom. If you resign there'll be no way for us to leave together, and they – "

"Who said anything about leaving together?" he raged. He was caught fast in the line between fury and utter desolation, his blood rushing fast and thick through his veins.

"Pardon me, _milady_," he sneered. "But I'd rather not be only the means of your escape. Last night I was put under the wrong impression. I thought –" He stopped short, unable to say the words. He started again, his voice hoarse with pain, "But it seems as though you thought to come here and relieve me of that burden."

Sybil stared at him for a few long moments, her expression unreadable, before bursting into a fit of giggles. He remained standing by the door, completely flummoxed by her response.

"Oh, Tom Branson, you are such a fool," she laughed prettily, her smile stretching her lovely mouth wide. "I don't know if I should throttle you or kiss you," she giggled again, until her expression became somber once more.

"Let me make myself perfectly clear; my intentions of running away with you had little or nothing to do with using you as a means for escape," she uttered, her eyes intent upon his. He staggered forward, sliding into a chair at his writing table, his brain working hard to process her words.

She moved toward him, kneeling before him on the floor and taking his hand in hers.

"I'm sorry if I left that impression," she began again sadly, her eyes clear and blue and remorseful. "It's just that… well, I thought that you were so sure of my feelings all along. You were always so open, with your affection for me, and at times presumptuous about how I felt about you." Here she grinned, gazing down at his rough palm, her fingers trailing designs from his wrist to his fingertips – mesmerizing.

"I assumed that once I said yes, it would be obvious to you what my intentions were. But it seems as though I was mistaken." His heart was beating so rapidly in his chest he was sure she must be able to feel how strong his pulse was beneath his skin. The feel of her fingers against his arm was indescribable.

She brought his hand up to cup her cheek, leaning into his callused palm. Her eyes, warm and open, gazed into his as she murmured, "I love you, Tom."

He was sliding out of his chair to kneel before her on the floor in an instant, his other hand coming up to cup her face. She was smiling, her cheeks full and soft and warm in his hands.

"Say it again," he uttered, his lips so close to hers, their breath mingling.

She leaned in slowly, brushing her lips with his; a fleeting caress. Her eyes twinkled merrily.

"I love you."

He could hold back no longer. With a groan he crushed his mouth to hers, slanting his lips against hers erotically. She gasped into his mouth, tangling her hands into his hair, reveling in the baby fine strands of dark blond hair at the nape of his neck. Pulling her flush against his body, he coaxed her lips open with his tongue before sliding inside her mouth to tangle with hers as she whimpered. He was painfully aroused; her earlier ministrations on his wrist and hand had left him nearly panting with want, and now that she was so warm and lovely in his arms he could practically hear his blood rushing south.

"Sybil," he groaned, hauling her up and into his arms before seating himself firmly on the chair at the table and pulling her down onto his lap, her legs astride him. She let out a breathy moan as she felt his response to her, squirming against him and shivering as he cried out against her lips. His hands planted firmly on her hips, he bucked into her, trailing his lips from her mouth to her neck, sucking hungrily at her pulse before moving to her collar bone. He swirled his tongue in the hollow at the base of her throat, her skin sweet and floral from her perfume.

His lips at her neck were driving her to distraction, but she could not fight the need to feel more of him under her hands; deftly, she lifted his undershirt, sliding her hands against the warm skin of his stomach. His muscles tensed as his breath caught in his throat, the feel of her hot little hands against him maddening. Trailing her fingers up, she stroked his back, feeling the strength of him there, before bringing her fingers back to his front to feel the fine line of hair trailing down his stomach. He claimed her mouth again with a grunt, his teeth nipping at her lovely mouth before his tongue laved her lower lip sensuously. Never in her life had she felt so wanton, her body tingling and tightening in mysterious places. She rocked against him again, the peculiar pleasure between her legs intensifying, need lancing through her. She could feel the hard ridge of him against her; despite her inexperience in all things romantic, she was not uneducated (for any squeamishness she might have had prior to the war was thoroughly abolished by her nursing training).

Sighing against his lips she ground against him again, desperate to sate the dizzying pleasure between her thighs and dying for it to continue. He ran his hand against her hip, dragging her against him, too far gone to care that he was bucking wantonly against the third daughter of the Earl of Grantham, and in his chauffer's cottage, no less. It was only when he brought his hand up to caress her breast through her nightgown that the spell broke; the delicate lace beneath his hands was warm, white and pristine, all innocence. He pulled his lips from hers with a groan, stilling her hips against his throbbing erection.

"Sybil, stop," he rasped, his accent thick. She opened her eyes slowly, her eyes a dark, lusty blue.

"Why?" she asked innocently, leaning forward and kissing him again, running her tongue along his top lip.

He grunted, pulling away from her again and smiling gently. "Because, if I don't stop now, I am unsure I'll be able to. And it has never been my intention to seduce you before we were married," he joked lamely.

She pouted prettily at him, and his resolve wavered. Before he could allow himself to be weakened by her again, he helped her off his lap slowly, and pulled up her own chair to she could sit across from him. Unable to keep from touching her, he pulled her hands into his, resting their entwined fingers atop the hardwood table. The sat gazing at each other for a few moments, silent save for the sound of their uneven breathing becoming regular again.

"I'm sorry," he began, his eyes betraying his shame for not trusting her. "I should have had more faith in you, in us. It was wrong of me to act as I did."

"What happens now?" he asked, unsure of her response.

She eyed their clasped hands before murmuring, "I want us to be together, Tom. There is no life for me here. Not anymore," she added sadly.

"Where shall we go? When do you wish to tell your family?" he asked earnestly, his every happiness wrapped up in her answers.

"I want to wait a little while," she said quickly, seeing the distress in his eyes. "If only to ensure that you and I will have a proper future together. It won't do much good to explain to my parents that I plan to marry you, only to have no course of action at hand."

"Alright," he sighed. "I'll write to my mother first, explain everything. She won't be happy about it, make no mistake. But she won't throw us out if we need a place to stay."

"I'll need a reference from Major Clarkson, if I'm to apply for a nursing position. We also need to think about what you'd like to do. I'd hate it if you went back to Ireland, only to be a chauffer again. I want you to be involved in the rebellion," she said earnestly, and he was reminded again of all the reasons he loved her.

"You mean you wouldn't have me if I remained a chauffer?" he teased, caressing her palm.

"Of course not," she stated haughtily, her eyes twinkling. "I fully intend you to become a revolutionary. It sounds far better than 'chauffer', anyway."

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, then I'd better start looking for a more dignified occupation, milady."

"That you should. And I don't see why we can't do it together. I helped Gwen find a secretary position, why can't I help you find new employment?" She was still giggling when she stood from the chair, having noted that the time was well past one.

"I should be getting back," she stated, her voice low. "I don't want to leave you, now that everything's…settled." She struggled for a proper word, her cheeks flushing as she thought back to their heated encounter.

He stood and walked her to the door, enjoying how the color in her face enhanced her features.

"Will you visit tomorrow?" he asked, eager to know when he would see her next. Gone were the days of hopelessly waiting for unannounced arrivals in the garage; he would see to it that they saw far more of each other now that everything was, 'settled'.

"Yes. I'll look through the circulars in the paper tomorrow at breakfast and see if anything catches my eye. I'll bring it out to you tomorrow night, after dinner. Say, eleven?" she asked.

"I'll be waiting, milady," his eyes gleamed as he answered her, bending down to claim her lips in a kiss.

"Until tomorrow," she said, smiling.

"Until tomorrow," he replied, watching her make her way through the darkness back into the safety of the house.

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><p>Confession: First make-out scene I've written. Ever. Tell me what you think? Please?<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello out there? Sorry for the MONTH DELAY? I feel like I blinked and a whole month of my life was gone. Real life is kicking my butt, what with my last semester of college going strong (please hurry up May 23rd!) and my part time job and internship and blahhhh. So, I'm sorry :( but I hope you all enjoy this, and please review!

P.S. Reminder: this is unbeta'd. And written in chunks during the wee hours of the morning. So, if there are mistakes ignore them ;)

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it. Not even a little bit.

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><p>When Sybil entered the library the following day, she was quite unprepared for the stroke of good fortune she was about to receive. After poring over circulars and advertisements for possible job offers she had intended to appeal to her father to allow her drive into Ripon, if only as a ruse to spend time with Tom. As she approached Lord Grantham, seated at his writing table as he was, she was mentally preparing a laundry list of reasons as to why she should commandeer the motor for the entire afternoon when he turned to her and offered a smile.<p>

"And what is it today, Sybil? Off to save the refugees with cousin Isobel?"

"No, papa. I was actually rather hoping you wouldn't mind me hiring the motor for the afternoon? I know it's late, but I had hoped to pop into some shops to –"

"I'm afraid you'll have to delay your plans for tomorrow," said Robert, interrupting her vague excuse for a day excursion. "I've just given Branson the afternoon off, God knows the poor chap needs it, what with the way he's been bustling about as of late. You could try and persuade Edith to drive you if it's that dire."

The slow smile that spread over Sybil's face went unnoticed by her father, who had turned back to his writing.

"Nothing too dire, papa. At least, not dire enough to employ Edith's driving," Sybil said, earning a laugh from Robert.

"No," she said slyly, backing away from him towards the door, "I think I might walk into town. I have been so longing for something to do, and I'm sure the exercise would do me some good."

"Yes, yes, I do believe you're right," he replied distractedly, again not looking up from his letters.

Sybil turned, fleeing the library and headed towards her room to fetch the advertisements and make good on her plan.

* * *

><p>Branson could not shake the sense of overwhelming happiness even if he tried. After Sybil had left his cottage the night before sleep would not come to him, for he was elated past the point of sanity and could not keep from smiling. So instead he poured himself into writing applications and letters to former employers to ask for references (for he knew that Lord Grantham would most definitely <em>not<em> be singing his praise after their departure). He wrote well into the early morning until his hand was cramped and the wax from the candle at his kitchen table was spilling onto the wood. Only then did he stack up his papers and crawl into bed to be met with visions of Sybil in her white nightgown walking toward him.

Now it was nearly midday and the entire estate had been bustling with activity for hours; he himself had already changed the oil in the motor, replaced an engine belt, and even washed and dried the car before ten that morning. All that he had left to do was to pace about the garage and await her arrival.

As he mindlessly cleared away imaginary dust from the worktables in the garage (as a way to preoccupy himself) he couldn't help but recall, again, their meeting the previous night. _So much has changed_, he thought. _So much and yet so little; even now we must hide behind the chasm of propriety to bide our time._ He had discovered soon after his second year at Downton that his infallible positivity had slowly descended to cynicism; every future held the possibility of ugliness. So, despite his unending happiness at Sybil's final declaration of love, Tom still had his doubts about their future (although if he examined them properly they stemmed more from his fear if displeasing her than anything else.)

His musings were cut short with her appearance in the garage; she stood between the frame of the door, holding a wicker basket and bundled to her nose in her warmest clothes, her smile quick and bright.

"Hello," she said, slipping quickly into the garage.

"Hello," he replied, amused and delighted at her presence and ashamed of his previous dour thoughts all at once.

"An interesting piece of information came my way this morning, would you like to hear it?" Her tone was mischievous, her eyes dancing and her breath forming in the cold air.

He chuckled, "I suppose I do."

"Well, apparently the 'poor chap' that drives the motor has been given the afternoon off, and I couldn't help but wonder if he might enjoy a winter picnic."

"A winter picnic? Is there such a thing?" He asked, trying to peek inside the basket in her arms.

She moved it deftly behind her back, keeping the contents a surprise.

"Of course there's such a thing, I've made it up. It's all arranged and I demand some company. And don't I make the orders, Branson?" All of this was said breathlessly, for she had come very close to him and was gazing into his eyes, daring him to refuse her.

Even if the thought of denying had crossed his mind, he was helpless against her.

"Of course, milady."

* * *

><p>After making sure he was dressed warmly enough, and sneaking away from the grounds of the main house undetected, the couple walked briskly through the cold afternoon, arms linked and heads close together.<p>

"How did you manage to get away from all the wedding plans?" He asked removing her arm from his in favor of twining their gloved hands together.

She smiled at their fingers, a light blush upon her cheeks. "It was actually papa that I had to convince, and he was so busy with his business that he barely batted an eye at my proposal of walking all the way to Ripon. I'm sure someone will wonder where I am and he'll be berated for allowing me to go all that distance on foot, although its not as if I couldn't have managed."

He grinned at that, imagining her response if someone dared to believe she couldn't make it there and back on her own.

"Have they been cracking the whip, so to speak? I'm afraid I've forgotten what your daily life entails, now that the war is over. Is it all wedding planning and luncheons with the Dowager?" His voice was teasing, but his curiosity was genuine.

"Yes, things have been dreadfully dull as of late," she said with a sigh. "My days are soon to be filled with lace patterns and flower arrangements and gown fittings for Lavinia. Not that I'm not happy for them, it's just…" She broke off, staring into the dense fog.

"I understand," was his simple reply. "Your life had gained purpose, and now you fear that all you've worked to learn and gain will be brushed under the rug."

She stopped and turned to him and grasped his hand more tightly, her eyes alight with affection.

"Yes, that's exactly it. How is it you sometimes know my mind better than I do myself?"

He lifted his hand tentatively toward her cheek, before brushing his thumb along the skin there.

"Because I know you," he said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

* * *

><p>The pair had finally reached their destination which consisted of a secluded patch of woods where a large oak tree was positioned by an ancient stone wall. Sybil, rather proud of her winter picnic, proceeded to remove all the contents from her basket before arranging them on the warm wool blanket she brought to spread over the damp ground. The food was neither elegant nor abundant (for Mrs. Patmore wouldn't be fooled into believing Sybil would devour such a large meal by herself) but it would suffice.<p>

After the last morsels were devoured, Sybil arranged herself against the trunk of the tree, allowing Tom to lay along the ground with his head in her lap. His eyes fell closed as she began to run her fingers through his dark blonde hair, fatigued as he was from the lack of sleep. She was so calmed by the moment between them that she felt compelled to speak openly, as they had never been able to do before.

"When did you first realize you loved me?" she asked quietly.

Tom had been so relaxed that her question caught him off guard; he opened only one eye and raised the corresponding eyebrow at her teasingly.

"Why must you know the exact moment? Isn't it enough that I waited all these years?" he reached for her left hand and brought it down to twine with his across his chest.

She giggled flirtatiously, delighting in this sillier side of Tom. "I already told you Branson, I give the orders. Now tell."

His relaxed form became rigid as he impersonated Carson's baritone, "Of course, milady. At your service." He stood up before her and bowed deeply as she fell against the tree in uncontrollable laughter.

"Should I call you Carson from now on?" she managed to get out between giggles.

"No, I rather think that would cause confusion amongst the staff," he chuckled, plopping down beside her and leaning back against the old tree.

When their laughter quieted she turned her face towards his expectantly. He needed no further prodding, knowing inherently that his response to her request was deemed the greatest of importance.

"I always thought it was that day at the count, in Ripon. The day you were injured. But the more I think on it, the more it seems that I loved you from the first day I offered you those pamphlets on women's rights."

Her brow wrinkled in confusion; _how could he have loved me since that first moment?_

"It might seem strange to you," he said, ducking his head bashfully. "But every moment spent with you was like a discovery; I learned more of my feelings each time we were together. And when I think back, how could I rule out every early moment if it built what I feel for you now? So I had to go back to the beginning."

She sighed happily, pleased with his rationale. "I was so young and naïve, I suppose I always wondered if you thought me foolish then. If, at first, you saw me for the silly girl I was," she smiled gently, her head resting on his chest. They were silent for a time, before the question that had been plaguing him emerged.

"And when did you realize it? I've recently thought of nothing else but the time between your refusal in York and how one night you came into the garage, ready to run away with me," his confession was startling in its frankness. He had contemplated her answer many times in the past few days, and her simple explanation on that night in the garage did not seem to suffice.

He felt her sigh against him before beginning bravely, "It may sound odd, but it was Mary that brought it on."

"Your sister? The Lady Mary that would prefer my head on a spike rather than on my shoulders?" He chuckled, _unbelievable_.

She giggled, "The very same. Though I don't think she'd resort to having you beheaded."

"I'd beg to differ-," he said, but was impeded by her bare fingers on his lips, effectively silencing him.

"Hush," she reprimanded, "don't you want me to tell you?" He nodded slowly, dumbstruck by the softness of her skin against his mouth and felt compelled to place a kiss there.

"Alright then," she stated, her cheeks flushing prettily at his gesture.

"It was Mary that made me realize I couldn't bear to lose you," she said, amazed by the intensity his eyes took on at her words. "We sat there together at dinner while Matthew and Lavinia announced their engagement, and their desire to marry at Downton, and all I could see was Mary. She tries to hide it, but I could see the regret and despair in her eyes. And all at once I realized: _this will be me in a few years if I let him go. He _won't_ wait forever; I will end up driving him away. _I couldn't stand to be like Mary, to deny myself what I wanted most because of the opinions or the advice of others, only to face the despair of my decision every day. I don't know how she bears it."

She had been forcing a button on his coat back and forth through its hole during her speech, but at the end of it she turned her eyes to his, unsurprised by the emotion in his gaze.

"It hit me all at once, that's why I rushed out to tell you. I felt as though I couldn't contain my love for you, like it had sprouted legs and arms and was walking towards the garage to tell you before I'd made up my mind to do so."

The hand that had been caressing her hair moved to brush along her cheek, before trailing down to smooth his thumb over her bottom lip. He eyed her intently, painfully aware that they had not kissed since the night before, _and, oh, what a kiss it had been_. The memory of her on his lap, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her in his arms caused his hand to tremble as he closed the space between them.

He brushed his lips along hers softly, chastely, highly aware of the intimacy of this moment; their hearts were bared to each other and he would not tarnish that fragility with lust. She sighed against his mouth before bringing her hand up to rest against his cheek, cool to the touch from the frigid air.

* * *

><p>Tom awoke a while later, his back stiff from sleeping on the ground at the base of the tree. However, when he felt Sybil stir beside him he felt the tension leave his body, and decided to give her a few more minutes of rest.<p>

After a few moments she lifted her head off his chest and opened her eyes blearily at him, shivering under her layers. "It's so cold," she whimpered, burrowing into his chest for more warmth. He chuckled, moving to embrace her more fully.

"I'm sorry, love. But I think it's best if we get you back before you're missed."

She grumbled petulantly before allowing him to help her to her feet; blushing, she allowed him to brush the earth and leaves from her skirt before repeating the action for him. Once presentable they began walk back towards Downton.

Just before they reached the gates Tom panicked; _how soon will we have another moment like this?_ Using her hand to pull her into one final embrace, he pressed his mouth hungrily to hers, his arms wrapping around her waist. Although their previous kiss was chaste and sweet in nature, this one was not for it was tinged with the desperation both felt at not knowing when they could have a completely private moment. She gasped lightly when he pulled away, and he breathed heavily into her hair and held her tightly.

She sighed sadly, "I don't know when I'll be able to come round to the garage. After this I'm worried they'll be keeping a closer eye on me."

He nodded his head, his eyes pained. _Oh, how I hate this_.

"Until next time then," he said.

"Yes," she said and turned to walk through the gates towards the main house alone.

He had just moved to walk along the outskirts of the grounds towards his cottage when he heard her call.

"Tom!" she was running towards him, her skirts billowing around her legs. It occurred to him that he'd never seen her run before.

"Here," she said breathlessly, "I forgot to give you the job advertisements I found. Maybe you can read through them and send out letters of enquiry and we can discuss it the next time we see each other?" Her enthusiasm was infectious.

"Alright, I'll be sure to have a look and make some enquiries. Thank you, Sybil."

She did not reply, but simply leant up on her toes and kissed his cheek before turning and heading towards the house. He watched her retreating figure long after she entered, the vastness of Downton Abbey engulfing her before the doors shut firmly.

* * *

><p>Serious question: How many of you really liked the make out scene in chapter 2? As opposed to this less physically intense chapter? Would you prefer more or less of either, or both? Just curious ;) Thanks!<p>

Please review :)


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